


MONSTER. Part One: Lions

by kildeer



Series: MONSTER. [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cooking, Dark, Experimental Style, Fanfiction, Gaslighting, Hannibal - Freeform, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Palace, Murder, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Music, Poetry, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Will Graham - Freeform, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 13,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kildeer/pseuds/kildeer
Summary: The best way I've been able to describe this is a fanfiction poetry narrative following the storyline of the Hannibal TV series while pulling in material from the books and increasing the Hannigram. It's been a totally new writing experience for me and I've really enjoyed it so far - hopefully someone else will too :)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: MONSTER. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090100
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Wolf Trap, Virginia - November 1975

Will:

The pyramid says  
_As Above, So Below_  
And I can’t stop looking at it  
Thinking about those words.  
There was a storm in the night  
And so many trees are broken today.  
One lost a branch  
Half the length of itself  
And as it fell  
It was caught by the others  
Inverted in full leaf  
So that the tree appears  
To be growing up  
And down at once.  
I think about above  
And below  
And wonder whether  
The message is a wish  
Or a warning.

The Wolf Trap cemetery  
Is quiet in the morning.  
I suppose it’s quiet always  
Save the whispering  
Chorus of the trees  
But morning stretches differently  
Cold and water-heavy  
In dove-gray light.  
Empty liquor bottles glint  
Among the fallen leaves  
Colors bleeding  
From their curling labels.  
I never see the people who bring these bottles  
But I don’t care if they see me  
As I pull my flask out of my coat.  
I’m not above day drinking in cemeteries.

Someone  
Has left a nest  
Against the wall of a mossy crypt -  
A filth-matted flannel shirt  
An empty brown bottle  
A paperback copy of Dante’s _Inferno_  
Its pages so swollen with night  
That it opens like a flower  
Spine breaking in surrender.

I think about this person  
As my dogs wander  
Nosing into bouquets of dying roses.  
Does he sleep here at night?  
Where does he go during the day?  
Is someone he loves buried here  
Or does he grieve for them all?

Two stone lions stare at each other  
Across the pyramid  
Chins resting on their deadly paws.  
They are unnamed, but someone  
Has been bringing them offerings -  
Small bright coins  
Snaggled wildflowers  
Pieces of pale feathering wood placed  
Along their powerful resting limbs.  
I wonder what compels people  
To pay tribute to the lions  
And why they have chosen these firstfruits.  
At the same time I think I already know.

There’s a knowledge of magic-making  
Latent in all of us.  
When children go into the woods  
They know to make wands  
Where to find the ingredients  
For their spellwork -  
A fluted bird bone  
A stone from deep water  
A strand of spider-fine hair  
A drop of blood from a fingertip  
The child’s face turned away in a brave grimace  
Understanding intuitively  
That there is power in this.  
People bring gifts to the lions  
For the same reasons  
They bring flowers  
And pinwheels  
And teddy bears  
To the tombstones.

The vocabulary of the cemetery  
Is a lexicon of repeated words  
Which are also prayers  
And prayers which are  
At their core  
Expressions of fear -  
_Peace  
Everlasting  
Rest  
Life  
Remember  
Resurrection  
Forever  
Love_

A multitude of stones  
Begging for something eternal  
Even as their lambs melt away  
And fingers break  
From their guardian angels.  
All edges worn down  
All words fading  
Until a lump of voiceless stone  
Is swallowed by the earth.

My dogs return, knowing  
That it’s time for me to leave.  
They push their noses  
Into my palms and  
I stare at their soft faces  
Wordlessly asking them to have pity  
To give me permission to stay  
Because standing up means going forward  
To Minnesota  
Where something dark has hatched  
And is building its nest  
Gathering the firstfruits of its tribute.  
I have to discover  
What it’s trying to build  
And why.  
The secrets of its spellwork.  
I take a last pull from my flask  
And slowly get to my feet  
As the dogs dance around me.  
I fish in my pockets and produce  
A nickel  
A bottle cap  
A tangle of fishing line.  
I leave everything to the lions  
For what it’s worth.


	2. Baltimore, Maryland - November 1975

Hannibal:

Transformation is the only constant  
And everything is its ingredient.  
Ingredients know what they want to be  
Their destined final form.  
If you listen carefully you can hear them  
As you walk the aisles of the grocery store  
The furrows of the endless field  
The verdant chambers of the orchard.  
A thumbnail pressing into the taut skin of an apple  
Releases a cloud of sweet fragrance  
And a crisp hiss of water  
Telling you which knives you will need  
To core and dice, how the pieces will sink  
Puréed into sauce.  
Pomegranates sing to be halved  
Jeweled innards spilling  
Along a wheel of white cheese.  
The firm swell of a duck’s breast  
Beneath its pillowed feathers  
Is already anticipating the heat of a skillet.  
A neck, curved and twisting, shows you  
Exactly where it should be cut.

The art of cooking comes not only from  
Being able to hear your ingredients  
But from having the knowledge and discipline  
To use them correctly.  
Every component must be respected  
For what it is  
Where it came from  
Its potential.  
Nothing is insignificant  
And therefore nothing should be overlooked  
Or wasted.

Cooking, like all transformation  
Occurs within a crucible of time and heat and effort.  
The monk who spends his days and nights  
Chanting for the preservation and healing of life  
Is not so different from the chef who stands at his station  
Kneading, slicing, grinding and stirring.  
Both are devout acolytes  
Presiding over a great eternal birthing  
In which all participate.  
The children stumbling beneath  
The Sisyphean weight of their backpacks  
The sanitation workers in their muck-heavy boots  
The flocks of upwardly mobile youths  
Wearing the clothes of successful movie characters  
Are all part of the water wheel.  
The key lies in awareness and intention  
How we choose to participate in the transformation  
Or ourselves and others.  
We are all ingredients in the end.  
Apples and butter  
Light and salt.

I would rather be the teeth of the world.


	3. Crime Scene

Will:

The houses stay with me  
More than the people sometimes.  
Houses are hopeful  
Built with the best intentions  
A prayer for safety and belonging  
In every hammer stroke.  
Each detail is carefully considered  
For presentation and purchase -  
Big backyard  
New cabinets  
Finished basement  
Storm windows  
Closet space  
Hardwood floors  
Strong locks.  
The prospective buyers  
Are already imagining their lives here -  
Arranging furniture  
Watching the seasons change  
From the kitchen window  
Choosing the best spot  
For the Christmas tree.

The house seems to watch me  
As I approach.  
A conditional welcome -  
_You may enter  
But please offer protection  
As I do._  
A house touched by violence  
Is muted  
By the shock of its violation  
Numbed by its bindings  
Of yellow police tape  
And the muffled steps  
Of forensics specialists.  
It seems to look away  
Retreat within itself  
As pictures are taken  
And unfamiliar gloved hands  
Cut away sections of blood-stained carpet  
Specially chosen for the nursery.

The house knows  
What these strangers cannot -  
The weight of every footstep  
Carrying through its foundations  
Juice spilled during breakfast  
Fresh paint rolled onto walls  
Closet doors opened and shut  
To soothe fear before bedtime  
Love made quietly  
So as not to wake the children  
Family photos which say  
_Let’s remember ourselves  
Exactly like this  
Always._

How the salt and oil  
Of every fingerprint  
Could rebuild the lost.

The parents of Elise Nichols  
Age eighteen  
Sit at their dining room table  
Built to expand for company  
At Thanksgiving.  
Her father is still trying to tell himself  
That death has not found his family  
Sniffed them out like a lioness  
From the tall grass  
But her mother knows.  
The mothers always do.  
Atom to atom  
From before the beginning  
Cells quickening  
In the oceanic womb.  
She looks up at me  
And I can see the frayed end  
Of the tether in her eyes  
But I don’t feel it  
Until I begin climbing the steps  
To the second floor of the house  
Until I stand at Elise’s bedroom door  
Which holds itself stiffly  
Like a wounded animal.  
The silence of Elise’s bedroom door  
Is the silence of one praying  
To go unnoticed  
Because discovery  
Will make the nightmare real.  
And it does.  
Immediately.  
Elise is lying in the bed she picked out  
When she was twelve years old  
Beneath blankets chosen for their warmth  
Against the Minnesota winter.  
She could be sleeping  
And that’s exactly what her father thinks  
As he steps forward in relief and joy  
Still unable to comprehend  
Such separation. 

_I’ve failed_ , the house says  
As Elise’s father sags against her bedroom wall.  
_I couldn’t keep my promise.  
I am so sorry._


	4. Found

We are not lost   
But we are unclaimed  
When he finds us.  
I walk where I want  
Without great fear  
But also without touch.  
It is cold here at night.  
There are dangerous smells in the trees  
And a dangerous warmth   
In the wide hard road  
But I walk this road  
Because its threat keeps away  
Unfriendly things.  
I am afraid   
When eyelights appear behind me.  
I consider running into the trees  
But I am afraid.  
I keep walking.  
The loud unfeeling creature  
Which moves   
And breathes  
And sees  
Yet has no Life  
Crawls next to me  
Terrifying  
But a Living person  
Speaks to me   
From within it.  
His voice is good  
But I do not trust  
His creature  
So I retreat   
As far as I dare  
Into the treedark.  
The creature stops  
Then dies  
On the side of the road  
Which is frightening  
Because I know it can be   
Alive again  
At any moment.  
The Living person  
Removes himself  
From within the creature  
Opening it like a kill  
And I smell food.  
My hunger is stronger  
Than my fear  
And I inch towards him  
Ready to run  
Should the creature come back  
To not-Life.  
His smell is good  
And his voice is good  
And his food his good  
And when I let him touch me  
His touch is good too.  
His hands are quiet  
And do not threaten  
So I am brave  
And enter the opened belly  
Of the creature  
Which does not bleed.  
I hold very still  
Claws digging  
Eyes shut tight   
As the creature shakes  
And roars around me  
Terrified  
But he speaks to me  
With his good voice  
And I stay very still  
Warm now.  
When the creature stops  
And dies  
He opens its body again  
And I smell Living others  
But I am not afraid.  
They smell like him.  
They watch from within   
His shelter  
As he feeds me  
And cleans me  
And speaks to me  
With his quiet hands  
And his good voice.  
He brings a cage  
And because I trust him  
I enter it.  
He releases   
The Living others  
And I am not afraid  
Because they smell like him  
And they listen  
To his good voice.  
They have eaten his food  
And been cleaned   
By his hands.  
They do not threaten.  
I trust him  
And do not challenge  
The cage.  
He gives me a name  
Winston  
And sits with me  
Until I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plan was that Will and Hannibal would be the only POV narrators of these poems, so when the idea of turning Will's dogs into a kind of Greek chorus popped into my head, I genuinely didn't know whether it was an amazing idea or an indication that I was starting to crack. I started writing this poem as an experiment, and less than halfway through I realized that not only did I need _a_ Winston poem, I needed _multiple_ Winston poems <3 It's actually been a really fun challenge, trying to think about the events/characters of the show from a dog's POV, and finding a style of language to go with it :)


	5. Shrike

Will:

The blood which has dried  
Becomes wet again  
Gathering itself to leap  
Back up between her toes  
Around her knees  
Over her belly  
Like fishing lines  
Being drawn in.  
The antlers   
Withdraw from her   
And her skin knits itself closed  
Without a trace of having been broken.  
Strong hands crush   
Her throat open  
And the dense muscle of Elise Nichols’ heart  
Sparks  
And begins gulping blood  
A butterfly set free.  
The tiny blooming capillaries  
Of her sclera   
Close into blue white buds.  
As she stares at me  
(At _him_ )  
Terror drains from her face  
As I rise  
(As _he_ rises)  
From where I kneel over her  
(Where _he_ kneels over her)  
On her  
On the bed she picked  
When she was twelve.  
As my feet return to the floor  
( _His_ feet)  
She collapses back   
Fast asleep  
Warm   
Safe  
Dreaming  
And I stand over her  
( _He_ stands over her)  
Watching.

What are we thinking?

What do we want?


	6. Hooks

Hannibal:  


I approach my subject carefully  
As though I do not see him at all  
Hoping to delay the moment   
When he scents me on his trail  
But this one is a special breed  
Keyed to the highest frequency  
And I feel his wariness  
Before our eyes have even met.  
It is not always easy to see the strings  
Which thread the human animal  
Nor the keys and hammers  
Which will make it sing.  
I see Will’s strings immediately  
But this new instrument is so rare  
That I hesitate   
Hands tensing in anticipation.  
I do not want to play him incorrectly  
Because I feel as though I can already hear  
The music he will make  
And it is beautiful.  


Will:  


I don’t trust Dr. Lecter on principle.  
There’s a casualness to him  
An ease  
Which is not a lie  
But is still deceptive  
And puts me on edge.  
His deception  
Is that he is trying to appear  
More normal than he is.  
Nothing about Dr. Lecter   
Is normal, or rather  
Many things about him   
Are normal, individually  
But combined create  
The ambiguous exotic.  
His accent is complex  
And his face seems to belong  
To another time and place entirely.  
It’s an ancient face  
A profile stamped on coins  
Eyes looking out over the prow  
Of a Nordic warship  
Onto an ocean of ice.  


I’m not here   
To work with Hannibal Lecter.  
I’m here   
To be the bloodhound.

Hannibal:

I imagine that must be tiring for you.  
Holding yourself open to your prey  
As a matter of course  
Invites them to approach.  
It’s always a gamble, isn’t it  
As to whether you will be able   
To jump free  
Before the trap closes.  
If you jump free at all  
That is.  


Will:

What do you mean?

Hannibal:

Only that bloodhounds have a simple purpose  
With clear parameters  
And accept their role without conflict.  
The service you perform is more akin  
To that of a wild animal which is brought to heel  
Then sent out to lure its own kind.  
Even when you succeed  
You are left staring into the eyes of your quarry  
Feeling as though it is your Self in the cage.

Will:

I’m not a psychopath, Dr. Lecter.  
Being able to empathize with them  
Does not make me  
One of them.  


Hannibal:

Of course not.  
I was merely speaking of emotional truth  
Which is crucially different  
But no less real.  
Your gift is remarkable, Will  
As is your willingness to use it.  


Will:

It’s not a gift  
But someone wants me  
To think it is.  
Cassie Boyle  
Age nineteen  
Has been in this field  
For at least five hours.  
Her blood has frozen  
Where it runs down   
The goring antlers.   
A crow perches  
On her throat   
And its beak dips  
In and out   
Of her eye socket  
Like a seamstress’ needle  
Glinting dark wet  
In the wintry morning light.  
The last of her life  
Became ice crystals  
Which line the cavity  
Where her lungs  
Used to be.  


I didn’t  
( _He_ didn’t)  
Do this.  


Hannibal:

Do you mind if I open the curtains?  
It’s rather dark in here.  


Will:

Yes.  
Sorry.  
I have trouble sleeping.  


Hannibal:

No need to apologize.  
I’ve brought breakfast   
If you’re hungry.  


Will:

Yes.  
Thank you.  


Hannibal:

It is not my intention to pin you  
Like a specimen in a butterfly collection, Will.  
I only wish to provide assistance as I am able.  


Would it help to talk  
About this new victim?

Will:

It’s a different killer.  
A copycat.

Hannibal:

What is it that sets these two killers apart?

Will:

Love.  
And fear.  


The copycat felt nothing  
For Cassie Boyle.  
She was  
Meaningless  
To him.  
When I touch his mind  
I touch  
Outer space.  
Dark matter.

The killer I’m looking for  
The Shrike  
Is consumed by love  
And therefore consumed  
By the fear of losing it.  
His need to keep  
The one he loves  
Is so deep  
That killing her  
To avoid losing her  
Isn’t enough.  
He can’t bear the thought  
Of being separated   
From her  
By a casket.  
By a weight of earth.  
He needs her  
To be a part of him.

Hannibal:

_Parting is all we know of heaven_  
_And all we need of hell._  


Will:

Emily Dickinson.

Hannibal:

Perhaps you and I will be friends yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First poem with dual narration and dialogue, and I'm already learning a lot about HTML ;) This is also the first instance where I cover multiple scenes within one poem, and I hope it works/isn't super confusing, because I'm going to be doing it a lot! If it helps, when I'm writing these poems I often picture two actors on a stage delivering them. Sometimes they're talking to themselves/the "audience", and sometimes they break off to talk to each other :)


	7. Apotheosis

Hannibal:

No action occurs within a vacuum  
But how often we send our arrows into the distance  
Without ever seeing them find their mark.  
My subject is an emerging element  
And I can’t resist exploring his properties  
Which interactions will smoke  
Which will catch fire  
Which will cascade fractals of light  
And shadow.

There was a very narrow possibility  
That Garret Jacob Hobbs would be the Shrike  
And I cannot deny that I feel a certain amount of surprise  
When I realize that my arrow has not only struck  
But splintered into blood  
Which covers my subject within seconds.  
One expert kick breaks Hobbs’ door  
And he is in full pursuit  
Like a falcon set into the sky.  
Beautiful  
This first glimpse of his strength.  
Beautiful  
To hear the unfaltering shots  
As I follow him.

But then Will  
On his knees in the blood  
Shaking as though at any moment  
He might break into pieces  
Holding the girl’s neck  
Imperfectly cut  
While the Shrike slumps and dies.  
Will pleading for grace as it pours  
Through his hands.  
And the girl, Abigail  
One so loved  
Upon whose altar so much sacrifice  
Has already been made  
Is just a girl after all.  
Uncomprehending  
Of her apotheosis.  
And not yet lost.

I kneel  
Taking her throat  
From Will’s hands  
And cup her pulse  
Counting her heartbeats  
As Will’s shaking subsides into stillness  
His eyes wide with sight  
Which transcends that of common men.  
It is the sight of prophets  
Who may see paradise  
But just as often see the pit.


	8. Messenger

Will:

Something  
Followed me out of Minnesota  
A shadow bigger  
Than the Shrike.  
In my dreams it appears  
As a great black stag  
Shaggy and wild  
But I know  
This is not its true shape.  
If my waking mind   
Is a house  
A refuge  
Then the stag is what waits  
Outside  
And I can feel it watching me  
From just beyond the shivering tree line.

As I keep vigil  
In Abigail’s hospital room  
I hear the dull bell beats  
Of hooves in the hall  
Then the shuddering power  
Of its breath  
As it passes Abigail’s door.  
I go to the threshold  
And look out into  
The sterile white hallway  
Where the stag continues  
To walk away from me.  
The lights flicker  
And die as it passes  
As though the stag   
Carries midnight   
In its wake.

I watch it leave  
Knowing  
That there is an understanding  
Between us -  
The stag will not leave me  
Until I have followed  
And received  
The message  
It has been sent  
To bring me.


	9. First Blood

Hannibal:

Is something the matter, Will?

Will:

Could you be more specific?

Hannibal:

You’re circling my office like a trapped bird.  
Would you care to take a seat?

Will:

I don’t do this  
Normally.  
Therapy.

Hannibal:

It has been mandated that you meet with me  
But our conversations need not be enshrined  
In formality. I believe  
That would, in fact, detract  
From their potential benefit.

Will:

What  
Would we talk about?

Hannibal:

Whatever you like.  
Whatever would be helpful to you.

Will:

I don’t know  
That I’ll be able to move on  
From killing Garret Jacob Hobbs.  
I feel like I’ve been stained  
Inside.

Hannibal:

That’s understandable.  
Taking a human life represents a moral threshold  
Which can be difficult to come to terms with  
No matter the circumstances of the killing.  
In your case I imagine that this struggle is amplified  
By the profound depth of your abilities.  
To absorb so much of another’s mind  
The essence of their personhood  
Until you feel their feelings as your own  
Is, in a sense  
To become them.  
When you shot Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Did you feel the bullets enter your own body?

Will:

Yes.

Hannibal:

That must have been frightening.

Will:

I’ve been trying  
Not to think about it.

Hannibal:

I hope that saving Abigail’s life  
Will help to alleviate at least   
A small portion of your guilt  
At having killed her father.

Will:

She needs to wake up first.  
Besides  
You were the one  
Who really saved her life.

Hannibal:

You and I bear equal responsibility  
For Abigail Hobbs’ life now.  
But neither of us is obligated to carry what happened  
On our backs forever.

Will:

Would it be alright  
If we talk about something else?

Hannibal:

By all means. This is  
As one might say  
Your stage.

Will:

If I’m a lure  
It’s because no one   
Wants to be alone.  
Not even psychopaths.  
The human forest is full  
Of incompatible fruitbodies  
Seeking their own kind  
Affinity  
In soil that can  
Nourish them.  
Connection   
Is hard won  
Tenuous at best  
And full of unseen trip wires.  
The acceptable mask  
Of human behavior  
Is rarely a perfect fit.

Hannibal:

Are you speaking of the killers you pursue  
Or yourself?

Will:

According to you  
There’s no appreciable difference.

It’s been a long time.  
Since I had a friend.

Hannibal:

I can understand  
Why the mask you speak of   
Might chafe you.  
Especially if, as I suspect  
You fear being honest with others.

Will:

Most people would rather  
Not share my thoughts.

Hannibal:

You have a calling  
Which is beyond most people.

Will:

Really.  
And what is my calling?

Hannibal:

To curate the gallery of life’s other side.  
Nothing can be understood  
Until it is observed  
And nothing can be healed  
Until it is understood.  
Only those who are brave enough  
Strong enough  
May undertake this work  
But the work must be done all the same.

Will:

Are you talking about my calling  
Or yours?  
You were a surgeon  
Before you were a psychiatrist.  
You’ve seen your share  
Of blood.

Hannibal:

An unintentional parallel  
But one well-spotted.  
You are correct  
And based on our shared experience of violence  
I feel that I can be honest with you.  
Will you grant me that same trust?

Will:

I guess that would depend  
On what you want to know.

Hannibal:

The torment you feel   
Over the death of Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Does not stem from grief at having taken a life.  
Am I correct?

What frightens you  
Perhaps what has frightened you  
For a very long time  
Is that there is something inside of you  
Which yearns for the kill.

You don’t need to be afraid, Will.  
I am not afraid of you.  
Nor do I think you are dangerous  
Or broken. As you said  
The mask fits everyone differently.

Will you be honest with me?

Will:

It felt good.  
To kill him.

Hannibal:

Is it easier to accept your actions  
As necessary for the fulfillment of justice  
On behalf of the Shrike’s victims?

Will:

I don’t think so.

Hannibal:

Perhaps there is a point at which  
It becomes imperative for a cycle of destruction  
To be broken, and therefore  
It must always fall on someone  
To make that call.

Will:

Playing God  
In other words?

Hannibal:

Where does the human drive for power come from  
If not God?

Will: 

It comes from powerlessness.


	10. Folie à Deux

Abigail:

There’s a poem in my head when I wake.   
Not _right_ after I wake, of course.   
My first waking is all panic, choking   
On the tube down my throat  
Scratching at the needles in my hands.   
But the poem comes later   
After they’ve moved me to a room   
With a window where I can see the trees. 

_Nature’s first green is gold_  
_Her hardest hue to hold._  
_Her early leaf’s a flower_  
_But only so an hour._

I keep telling myself  
That it’s still November  
Of the same year  
Of what used to be my life.  
It took less than an hour  
For things to fall apart  
Which took so long to build.  
Is that how it always is?  
I suppose falling slowly  
Is a contradiction.  
Maybe it was always going   
To end this way-  
With a knife at my throat  
And my father’s tears   
In my hair.

_Then leaf subsides to leaf._  
_So Eden sank to grief_  
_So dawn goes down to day._  
_Nothing gold can stay._

It was never gold, though  
Was it, Dad  
For you?  
When did you start to turn  
Like a tarnished mirror  
Turned dark  
Reflecting nothing  
As it should be.

Somehow I don’t think  
There were many butchered girls  
In Robert Frost’s grief-sunk Eden.  
We read the poem in 8th grade  
During our unit on _The Outsiders._  
I memorized it because it was short  
And because I had to  
But I think I knew  
Even then  
That losing my gold  
Would be too ugly  
For poetry.  
What can I say?  
Some people are marked.

Like Stephanie  
Who had boobs before everyone else  
And paid for it every day -  
Boys tossing popcorn  
Into her cleavage  
And offering her $10  
For handjobs on school trips.  
She had a stillborn niece  
And brought a shoebox to school  
Full of the baby’s things -   
Pink-knit newborn cap  
Christening gown  
Pacifier.  
The teachers cast sidelong looks  
At each other and said  
She was morbid  
Under their breath.

Looking back now  
I don’t think Stephanie was morbid.  
I just think she learned  
How life really is  
A little earlier than everyone else.  
But we all catch up   
Eventually.

My father marked me  
In a way no one could see  
Long before he cut my throat.  
But now there’s a scar  
And sometimes   
When I see it  
When I touch it  
It doesn’t feel   
Like the edge of a kitchen knife  
Broke my skin, a cloud opening  
To rain blood over the kitchen  
Which flowed into rivers  
Which raced to become  
A lake on the linoleum  
Which became an ocean  
Beneath my body.

I look at the scar  
And it feels as though  
It pushed up from my skin   
All by itself   
Like a worm from the earth  
A blind industrious worker  
Saying  
_I’ve always been here_  
_You’re just seeing me now._  
The scar is my father  
The last work of his hands  
Captured in tissue.  
The scar is the mark  
That was always there.

And now I see it everywhere.  
One mirror shifts  
And the whole maze is ruined.  
There are tiny mouse bones  
Beneath the piles of golden leaves  
Surrounding the house  
Which used to be my home  
And someone has written  
_CANNIBALS_  
On every door.

The mark is me.

The pillow I hold in my arms  
Is full of human hair.

Hannibal:

The important thing  
Is that you are not alone  
Abigail.

Abigail:

I know.  
The mark  
Is on you, too.


	11. Home

Hannibal:

The dogs do not know me  
But they smell sausage  
And I like to think  
As they crowd around my feet  
Eyes following my hands  
That perhaps they smell Will, too.  
His home is small and modest  
Not particularly clean  
But there is a tidiness to it  
A welcoming comfort  
And as I stand in the front room  
I am struck by the idea  
That this place does not fully belong to Will.  
That he is wearing it like borrowed clothes.  
The tinny neglected voice of the upright piano  
The framed prints of pastoral landscapes, fish and wildlife  
A respectable, if somewhat generic, selection of books  
The unassuming utilitarian furniture  
All feels as though it came with the house  
Left behind by a stranger.

I look for Will  
And find him in the dogs with their pungent beds  
A battered boat motor propped against the wall  
In a dresser drawer full  
Of undershirts, socks, and briefs  
Simple white clothing sold in bulk  
Meticulously folded and organized  
Like the drawer of a small child or a soldier.  
I find Will  
In the rack of fishing poles  
And at a work table  
Where a magnifying glass draws my eye  
To the single brightest color in the house -  
A carnelian feathered fishing lure  
Suspended in the air.

Will has placed this table as an artist might  
With an eye to the best natural light  
And I sit on his chair  
Peer through his glass  
And survey the minutiae of his craft.  
The design and construction of the lure  
Are elegant in their simplicity.  
I select a new feather in the same shade  
And create a kind of fin  
Copying the work which has already been done  
As an apprentice mimics their master.

I think about Will’s hands  
Using these tools  
And the way his breath must slow and catch  
As he winds the red thread  
And cinches it tight.  
Such beauty and consideration  
Hidden within a small thing  
A seemingly careless thing  
A means to a different end entirely.  
I think about the fish  
Who will spot this bright color  
In the murky depths of a river  
And be unable to resist.  
I sink the sharp barb of the hook  
Into my thumb so that I will be there  
In that river, with that fish  
And with Will  
When the bait is taken.


	12. Family

Will:

My mother left  
Just after I was born.  
Dad never said why  
But I always figured she just  
Didn’t want to be a mother.  
My dad did the best he could.

Hannibal:

Would you consider him  
A loving man?

Will:

He cared about teaching me things.  
Useful, you know -   
Boat motors  
Basic carpentry  
Car repair  
Fish and trap  
Shoot a gun  
Clean game.  
That’s a kind of love.

Hannibal:

A good parent feels obligated  
To give their child the tools they will need  
In order to survive.

Will:

Yes.

Hannibal:

Do you keep in contact with him?

Will:

He died.  
A few years ago.

Hannibal:

I’m sorry to hear that.

Will:

Are your parents still around?

Hannibal:

No.  
They died when I was a child.

Will:

Oh.  
Sorry.  
What happened?

Hannibal:

Casualties of war.  
When the Eastern Front collapsed  
My family and I were caught  
In the crossfire, as it were.  
But we were talking  
About your father.

Will:

I  
Yes.

My dad was a drinker.  
We never had much money.  
When he did get a little extra  
He would go away for a day or two.  
A bender.

In summer when he was gone  
I would take a shotgun and a dog  
And sleep in the woods  
Just far enough away  
That the lights of our house  
Were like fireflies  
In the dark.

Hannibal:

Why do you think you did this?

Will: 

I don’t know.  
To escape, I guess.

Hannibal:

Were you perhaps  
Hoping to be found?  
That someone would fear for you  
And come out into the darkness  
Calling your name?

Will:

Maybe.  
It doesn’t really matter now. 

Hannibal:

See the boy -   
A scrap of child  
Intentional and yet so anonymous  
As to seem naturally occurring,  
Like a candy wrapper in the grass.  
A boy who will be sent to school in winter without a coat.  
Who will inherit nothing but the pride to deny he is cold.  
A boy who fell in love with the wind  
Because it felt like being touched.


	13. Follow

He wakes  
But is not   
Awake.  
I have not seen  
This before  
And it frightens me.  
The others look up  
Eyes following him  
But they do not.  
They have seen   
This before.  
He moves   
Through the house  
As though he hears  
Something  
And knows  
Where he is going  
But I don’t  
And I don’t like the way  
He doesn’t seem  
To feel  
Hear  
Or see me.  
He leaves his shelter  
Moving without   
Hesitation   
Or doubt  
About the dangerous things  
In the night.  
He moves  
As though someone  
Has called him.  
Afraid  
I follow.  
The dying  
And birthing light  
Is full grown  
Above.  
It is cold  
Colder than the night  
He found me  
And he leaves   
His creature  
Where it sits Lifeless.  
All the sounds   
Of night  
Are careful  
Not wanting   
To be heard  
But I smell  
Their makers  
And know  
They watch.  
He does not   
Know me  
Though I walk  
At his side  
On the hard road  
Warm   
With danger.  
I wish   
I could hear  
What he hears  
To know  
Where we are  
Going.  
There is ice  
On the road  
Thin as leaves  
Biting cold  
And every tree speaks  
When the wind moves.  
The dying  
And birthing light  
Moves  
And I wonder  
If it calls him.  
If this is what I smell  
Because there is  
Something  
Coming from him  
A smell  
Which I do not know  
And I do not know  
If it is good.  
But his color  
Is not good  
And his absence  
Is not good.  
I do not know where  
We are going  
But I know  
That I will follow  
Him  
So that he  
Is not lost.  
You are only  
Lost  
If no one knows  
Where you are.


	14. How We Lose

Hannibal:

We feel it happening, instinctively  
In the same way that we step outside  
And taste winter on the air.  
Loss is nothing more nor less  
Than a manifestation of change.  
Of transformation.  
As Émilie du Châtelet proposed -  
Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.  
It simply moves from one form to another.  
Everything that has or will exist, does exist  
Eternally, like the vast country glimpsed in passing  
From a boat. Little comfort, that  
For we who are bound to the boat.

Little comfort for Bella  
Whose body betrays her with no regard  
For her strength or dignity.  
For that which she has already endured.  
Her anger is boundless  
Fundamental as bedrock  
As she seeks a way to mark her loss  
Make death remember  
This notch in its endless belt.

Little comfort for Jack  
Who felt her season start to change  
But gauged the wind too late  
And now can only watch, anticipating  
A life marked by absence in a world  
Which does not mark hers.  
Nothing to do now but to do  
Honorably, knowing that all who swim  
Do so alone.

Little comfort for Elliot  
Already drowning in water unable  
To swallow the burning in his skull, pulled  
Between that which is and that which is  
Unknown. Calling out into the void  
Hoping to guess its name  
So that it will recognize him  
And have mercy.  
_______ _eleison_.

Little comfort for Will  
So tempest-tossed  
That no one would blame him  
For missing the opening strains  
Of this new movement, a key change  
Ominous in its unconcern which leaves him  
Hesitant, unsure of where to turn  
And what to say to save himself  
Or whether he’s worth the trouble.  


The everlasting invisible which sculpts  
Time in membrane and mud cannot be held  
To account for the teeth of a child  
In the latrine pit, nor  
The frothing corpses which line  
The river’s bed. We know

Will:

All we ever can  
And it’s never enough  
For us anyway.  
I think that’s part of why  
I like the river  
And the trees  
And the animals.  
It hurts to try  
With people  
When we know  
How it will end  
But we keep trying  
Anyway.  
Love  
Is a kind of  
Forgetting.  



	15. "A finer aftershave"

Will:

I can only imagine.  
Hannibal smells like a forest  
Where wild mint and rosemary emerge fresh  
Beneath blankets of rotting leaves.  
Specifically he smells like the salted blood  
In the heart of a great stag  
Which moves without sound  
Through the underbrush  
Muscled neck bearing   
A candelabra of bone.  
The stag pauses  
Lifting its head   
To smell the moonlight  
Which is chalk and ice  
Cupped in the palm of a statue  
To a forgotten god.


	16. Ripper

Will:

Tis the season    
For specters rising, I suppose  
But it doesn’t bode well.  
The shadow of the Ripper  
Is one I hoped   
To not fall into.  
Of course  
There’s always the possibility  
That Abel Gideon  
Isn’t the Ripper at all.  
Violent psychosis  
Is a restless hydra.

My hackles rise  
As I follow Jack  
To the Baltimore State Hospital  
For the Criminally Insane.  
Every time I have to visit  
One of these places  
I feel like the doctors  
The orderlies  
The patients  
Even the bricks and bars  
Can smell me  
Like a Christmas ham  
All saying -  
_We see you._  
_We know you._  
_Control yourself_  
_Or you will be controlled._

Hannibal:

One could argue  
That institutionalization often provides  
A measure of peace and safety  
For those who have been unable  
To find such respite on their own.  
Is it so difficult to imagine their relief?

Will:

The relief of a bug  
Under glass.  
Always observed  
Restricted  
Personal dignity granted  
As a matter of legal obligation  
Unless no one is looking.

They would want  
To strap me down   
Crack my head open  
And prod around  
Until all I can feel  
Is their fingers  
In my brain.

Hannibal:

You know I do not wish that for you.

Will:

I know.  
You told me.  
You don’t want me  
For your butterfly collection.

Hannibal:

A specter has risen for Jack as well.  
The ghost of one he failed to save  
Haunting his steps  
Promising resolution  
When so much of his life  
Has been set adrift.

Will:

The Ripper  
Is nothing if not  
Cruel.

Hannibal:

Miriam Lass’ arm  
Left in an observatory.

Will:

Subtle  
Isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This poem(?) is _rough_ , y'alls, but I don't want to revise it anymore and I very much want to move on!


	17. Person Suit

Hannibal:

Music, at least, is oblivious to walls  
And it always finds me  
Where I am hidden  
In the warm spiraled darkness of the cochlea  
Bewitched and humming ocean.  
I take this performance  
Holding it in my mouth like wine   
And carry it through the halls of my sanctuary  
To the greenhouse  
Where I plant it deep among the roots   
Of the Odessa Calla lilies.  
The aria grows all around me -  
From performances in New York and Florence  
To the scratchy secondhand record  
I first listened to as a boy in Paris  
Itself a preservation of sound and breath  
Centuries gone.  
I am alone with this aria sung  
In its multitude of voices.

The reception hall of the Baltimore art gallery  
Is a cold and crowded affair by comparison  
Headache-inducing white walls  
And floors of polished granite  
Upon which the heels of high society  
Click like the pecking of hens.  
Ambitious new money  
Middle-class mothers who saved for their tickets  
Wearing desperate dresses they will never wear again  
Members of the board   
For the Baltimore Philharmonic   
Titans of industry cajoled into attendance  
By their rejuvenated wives  
Who vie breathlessly   
For invitations to my table.  
Perhaps it is time  
To throw a party.

Will:

Jack shows up  
In the middle of the night  
Banging on my door  
With news of carnage.  
In seven hours  
I’m supposed to be lecturing  
On deep-cover infiltration  
But these days  
My appointed substitute assumes  
That I will be absent.  
The night is cold and wet  
As I try to stay awake  
With the windshield wipers  
Beating their hypnotic rhythm.  
Jack has brought coffee  
From the 24-hour gas station.  
Perfunctory coffee -  
Warm  
Caffeinated  
Burnt  
Comforting   
In its unblinking stoicism.

We drive to a motel  
The kind that rents rooms   
By the hour  
Where a man  
Has been torn to pieces  
Scattered like breadcrumbs  
In a Pollock-flung trail  
Which my stag follows  
Into the bathroom  
Where the dead man slumps  
Waxen in the bloody bathtub.   
The work is too blunt  
Too panicked  
To be the Ripper  
And I say this to Jack  
Even though I know  
He doesn’t want  
To hear it.  
He asks me   
About the Ripper  
What I think of him  
As though asking  
For my recollections  
Of a high school classmate.

I see the Ripper   
As one of those pitiful things   
Sometimes born in hospitals.   
They feed it, keep it warm   
But they don’t put it   
On the machines.   
They let it die.   
But he doesn’t die.   
He looks normal.   
And nobody can tell   
What he is.

Hannibal:

It always surprises me  
When someone can see the walls  
Much less glimpse something  
Of what’s beyond them.  
It tells me that perhaps  
I am not as integrated as I would like  
Not as fundamentally untouchable  
And I monitor my feelings on the subject  
With mild interest, fascinated  
By those parts of myself which remain  
Resolutely human.

It is not unprecedented  
For an appointment to be missed.  
It has happened several times  
But tonight the absence  
Aches  
Like the first dissatisfied stirrings   
Of an empty stomach.

Where are you, Will?

Will:

I dream  
That I’m with Abigail  
Sitting on either side  
Of a severed stag’s head  
Which bears the body  
Of Cassie Boyle  
Like a bonfire.  
The light in the field  
Is bright and dark  
Eclipse light  
And Abigail  
Calls me   
_Dad_.

What did you say?

Hannibal:

I asked whether  
You were alright.

Will:

I’ll have to get back to you  
On that.

Hannibal:

The Ripper has been busy.

Will:

Harvest time  
Baskets heavy and dripping  
On their way to market.  
Not all of these  
Are his, though.

Hannibal:

You’re sure?

Will:

Yes.  
It’s like  
Reading a story  
And then reading  
A poor translation  
Of the same story  
Which lacks  
The poetry  
Of the original text.

Hannibal:

The Ripper is a poet?

Will:

The Ripper is a murderer  
With the pretensions  
Of a poet.

Hannibal:

Not the pretensions   
Of a judge?

Will:

When judgement amuses him  
Sure.

Hannibal:

You think amusement  
Is his primary motive?

Will:

That  
And survival.

The author  
Of shoddy translations  
Is clearly not as adept  
At evasion.  
We catch him quickly  
In the back of an ambulance  
The life of his current  
Victim patient  
Guttering.  
Again Hannibal  
Is called to save a life  
And he does so  
Unflappable  
Casting aside  
His tailored suit jacket  
Fabric money-heavy  
Rolling up his sleeves.  
Unerring  
He takes hold  
Of a man’s life, the ancient  
Intangible threads  
Accessible to him  
As spark plugs.  
I watch him  
And see the student  
Eyes blurring on the pages  
Of his anatomy textbooks.  
The surgeon   
Sweating through sleepless   
Nights which bleed  
Into hallucinatory days.  
For a second, as  
His hair falls across  
His forehead, I almost   
Glimpse the child.

The suspect  
Has been apprehended  
Is being cuffed   
Outside the ambulance  
But I watch Hannibal  
And he fills my eyes  
Like a golden tree.

Hannibal:

The upper crust is mingling in my dining room  
Speculating as to the first round   
Of hors d'oeuvres, but Will  
Is here in my kitchen -  
Winter coat  
Flannel shirt  
Worn jeans  
Scuffed shoes.  
I don’t have to be close enough  
To read the label to know  
That the bottle of wine he’s holding  
Came from a supermarket  
Selected absentmindedly  
If not entirely at random.  
He holds it as if this same thought  
Has just occurred to him  
And he wishes  
That he could spirit the bottle  
And himself away.

Will you stay?

Will:

I  
No.  
I mean  
I’m not really  
A party person.

Hannibal:

You know you’re more   
Than welcome.

Will:

Thank you.  
Maybe another time.

Hannibal:

A private dinner  
Perhaps.

Will:

Sure  
That would be great.  
Um  
I’ll just   
Leave this here.

Enjoy.

Hannibal:

Thank you, Will.  
Goodnight.

Will:

Goodnight.


	18. Strings

Will:

Something is in pain  
An animal out in the snow.  
I hear it as I work  
Repairing a boat motor  
Hands grateful to be busy  
Mind grateful for rest  
But I can’t   
Block it out.  
I go looking  
Eyes scanning the broken  
Yellow stalks spearing   
Up through the snow  
In the acidic sunlight  
But I can’t  
Find anything.

A body is found  
Center stage at Symphony Hall  
Slouched on a chair  
Limbs loose as a marionette  
With the neck of a cello  
Obscenely forced  
Down his throat.  
It reminds me  
Of something   
Out of a cartoon.  
The kind where everyone  
Ends up in hell.  
I imagine  
My delight  
(The _killer’s_ delight)  
In my own cunning  
( _His_ cunning)  
As I take up my bow  
( _He_ , _his_ )  
And step up behind   
This new instrument  
Ready   
To play him.  
To create music  
Which has never been heard before  
And will never be heard again.  
It is the music  
Of undiscovered tombs  
Clutched in the roots  
Of nameless cities  
Choked with bones.  
It is our music  
And it still thunders  
In the vaulted space  
As Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Claps.

Hannibal:

Before there was brass  
There was bone  
Wind running through reeds  
Teaching us  
How to make the world sing  
But no music belongs   
To its instrument alone.  
It requires the touch and breath  
The soul of another  
To bring it to life  
Therefore no two players will coax  
Precisely the same music  
From a shared instrument.

Who was this music  
Created for?

Will:

A kindred spirit.

Trapped.  
Scratching from inside  
To escape

My chimney?  
The hammer is in my hand  
And it isn’t until I’ve managed  
To pry the first brick loose  
That I realize there’s a hole  
In my living room wall now.  
There’s nothing  
In the chimney  
And Alana is here  
Looking as though  
She doesn’t quite   
Believe my story  
And I want  
To have a story.  
A simple one  
In which I can trust  
And be trusted.  
Tethered  
And whole  
Enough to kiss the girl  
And know  
She wants  
To kiss me too.

Hannibal:

The overture is expected, if abrupt.  
We’ve barely begun the first course.  
This musician does not seem to have  
Much patience for seduction  
And the dance lacks  
Spontaneity  
The communion  
Of uncertainty  
At war with desire.  
The offer of alliance  
Is barbed with threat  
Dipped in honey  
And I find I have no time  
For the killers’ courtship.

But then Will  
Unannounced  
Thundering inside  
Before I’ve even opened the door  
Tossing his coat to the floor  
Boots tracking hexagonal slush  
Which will become puddles  
On the hardwood of the foyer  
His puppyish joy redolent  
Of a boyhood I never experienced  
In which one travels an hour in the snow  
To tell his friends  
That he’s just kissed a girl.

The killer, Tobias Budge  
Has predictably taken his leave  
And there seems no point  
In letting dessert go to waste  
So I plate the puddings  
While Will talks of Alana  
His aura of youthful conquest  
Gradually dimming like a cloud  
Moving to cover the sun.

What were you hoping for?

Will:

Sex, obviously.

Well.  
Not even that really  
Not that I

I wanted  
To feel, even  
Just for five minutes  
Like someone else.  
Like the kind of man  
She would want   
To be with.

Hannibal:

There’s nothing wrong with wanting  
To escape one self  
And be lost in another  
But have you given thought  
To what you are  
Escaping from?

Will:

It’s all I give  
Thought to.  
That’s the problem.

And I can’t escape anything.  
It’s hanging over me   
Like a shadow  
And I know  
People see it.  
It’s there in their   
Eyes. 

Hannibal:

What form does this shadow take?  
The ghost of Garret Jacob Hobbs?

Will:

Yes, but also  
I’ve  
Been hearing things.  
Hurt animals.  
I try to pretend that  
They’re real  
But I know  
They’re not.

Hannibal:

His light has gone blue as the snow outside  
Barely glancing at the plate as he takes it from me  
His hands and fingernails dirty as a gravedigger’s  
Against the clean white porcelain.  
I hesitate, considering  
And then I tell him about Tobias Budge.

He blinks up at me  
As though realizing for the first time  
That he is an FBI criminal profiler  
And if I am honest with myself  
A part of me regrets reminding him.  
I hope, at least  
That he enjoys the pudding.

When Tobias Budge arrives at my office  
Already bloody, clothes torn  
Declaring he has killed his pursuers  
This is my first thought -  
Will’s dirty hands  
And sinking heart  
Boots still dripping onto the floor.

Alone together  
Tobias Budge and I  
May remove our person suits  
And I kill him  
For his brazenness in thinking  
That he was worthy to approach me  
But more than that I kill him  
For killing Will  
A fact which does not fully settle upon me  
Until the police have arrived  
And I sit, bleeding quietly  
Wishing I could have done worse.

The walls are high  
Continuously strengthened  
In the kingdom of my heart’s long winter  
Where I have forgotten  
Loneliness  
The affinity of sympathetic strings  
Which call out to each other  
For a time in the darkness.

But then Will  
Unshaven  
Blue eyes gone dark  
Holding himself stiffly in pain  
Follows Jack into my office  
And scans the wreckage  
Until he finds me.

You’re alive.

Will:

So are you.  
I’m sorry.

Hannibal:

That I’m alive?

Will:

No  
That wasn’t  
If I had stopped Budge  
He wouldn’t have come  
After you. I’m sorry  
About that.

Hannibal:

You have nothing to be sorry for  
Will.

He sits on the edge of my desk  
Bruised hands held empty   
Between his knees  
And our silence  
Feels like spring.


	19. Fathers

Will:

I arrive at the ocean  
Like Prospero  
To renounce my magic  
With one last feat -   
I candy my staff in corpses  
Running rebar through orifices  
Winding and winding the ropes  
While the last ingredient  
To my triumph  
Watches, waiting  
For his appointment.  
I feel him die  
My blade in his heart  
Slow and steady  
In time with the waves  
And he is still warm  
When I raise   
My monument.

But then I open my eyes

And

I’m in the waiting room  
Of Hannibal’s office.  
He’s opening the door  
But I’m wearing the same  
Clothes, so  
I can’t be dreaming  
Or just now waking  
Can I?

Cold sweat sticks  
My shirt to my spine  
As I pace his office  
Feeling every beat  
Of my shoes on the floor  
Tugging at the ends  
Of my fingers -  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here

Hannibal is solid  
In my periphery  
Like a mountain   
In a hurricane  
And I try to focus   
On his voice  
To slow down  
And let him  
Fill my eyes.

He’s telling me  
That I’ve lost time  
That I’ve traveled  
Unconscious   
That my mind  
Is shutting me out  
To survive its abuse  
That I need  
To stop.  
And he asks me  
Why?

Why do I  
Do this?

I do it  
Because I want  
To save people.

_ And who saves you? _

It’s not about me.

_Yes, it is._  
_To me, it is._

Abigail:

It’s about me.  
I know it is  
Even if I don’t want  
To think about it.  
The fact that  
Something about me  
Made my dad want to kill  
To butcher  
To feed.  
What did I do?  
What did he want?  
Did he want to fuck me?  
Did he want to kill me  
Because he couldn’t  
Bring himself to fuck me?  
Or did he just hate me?  
I can’t decide  
Whether any of these answers  
Is worse than the lack  
Of answers at all.  
But now the ghosts ringed round me  
Speak the same inescapable  
Truth -   
That they died  
So I could live.

Am I worth it?  
How could I ever be?  
One sad girl  
Is never going to tip a scale  
That heavy.  
And if he had just  
Taken what he wanted -  
My body  
My life  
Or both  
They would have walked free  
And I would just be  
Another sad girl   
In the ground   
Before her time  
Whatever that means.  
Mourned  
Remembered  
Innocent.

Will:

I still don’t remember  
The time I lost  
And when Jack tells me  
That I was acting  
Normally  
It scares me more  
Than anything else.  
Who was this Other  
Who was also me?  
What did he say?  
How did he walk?  
How did he drive?  
Did he turn on the radio?  
Did he choose music?  
Was it his decision  
To go to Hannibal  
Or mine?  
How little of me   
Exists at all  
If no one noticed  
That I was gone?

I make sure to show up  
For my lecture  
And I make sure  
That it’s a good one -   
I have my slides  
I don’t even need my notes  
And I read from the books of magic  
Contained within the totem pole  
Feeling the focused energy  
Of my students and  
Forcing myself to stand   
In its spotlight  
Because I am here  
And I am real  
Except this

Isn’t.

Alana walks in  
And when I blink  
My eyes  
It all vanishes -  
My students  
My slides  
I am here  
But they  
Are not.  
I am here  
To be  
Rejected  
All over again  
Because I am  
Collapsing  
And even as Alana  
Takes me in  
Her arms  
I feel myself falling  
Through like sand. 

Abigail:

I have nothing left  
But the mark.  
The mark of violence  
That is also me  
That wears my face  
And answers to my name  
But exists   
And grows  
In ways I cannot  
Control.  
Will and Dr. Lecter  
Try to tell me this  
And I know they’re right  
Because the violence  
Which wears them  
Watches me   
From behind their eyes.  
I can feel Will  
Pulling against it  
Like a dog against a leash  
Because he doesn’t want  
To be the mark.  
He wants to be   
My father, but  
Not _my_ father.  
He tells me that  
I’m important to him  
And I don’t know how  
To tell him that being  
Important  
Is where I went wrong  
In the first place.

I wait for the call  
For the news   
That a body has been found  
And when it comes I feel  
Scared, mostly.  
I am brought to the morgue  
To identify the body  
Of Nicolas Boyle  
But I know that’s not   
The real reason I’m here.  
I’m here because Agent Crawford  
Wants to see me flinch  
Wants to catch me in a lie.  
I look at Nicholas Boyle  
Grey and blue and gutted  
Raised from the snow  
Like a nightmare, but  
Still dead.  
Dead for good.  
I look at Nicholas Boyle  
And I feel  
Powerful  
Because I made this happen  
And I can look   
Agent Crawford in the eyes  
And tell him how I fought  
When I was alone  
When I thought  
I was destined to die  
And how I  
Survived.

Hannibal says  
That I’ve put us both at risk  
By giving up the body  
And I’m grateful  
For his self-interest  
Which almost outweighs   
His concern for me.  
If Will was in Hannibal’s place  
He would throw himself on the tracks  
With love in his eyes. 

Will:

The magician leaves  
His door unlocked, waiting  
For his judgement to arrive  
Prepared, like a bard, to tell  
The history   
Of his exploits -  
Shapeshifting and sorcery  
The power of secrets  
Taking the good faith of others  
Their innocent belief in his  
And making himself  
Invisible.  
How he killed the son  
Of the woman who left him  
And how his legend   
Will endure.

We tell him a new story  
About the blind spot  
In his grand design -  
That the son  
Crowning his monument  
Was his son all along  
Protected from him  
By a mother  
Who saw through  
His enchantments.  
I watch the slow savoring joy  
Drain from his eyes, gone dead  
Like a breaking spell  
And his hand falls  
Once  
Twice, ringing  
A heavy silent bell.

I go to see Nicholas Boyle  
To see his killer  
If I can.  
What remains  
In the ice light of the morgue  
Is tragic in its  
Mutability  
In its inability  
To speak for itself  
To stand and accuse  
To proclaim  
_I am still here_  
_I am still real_

His hair is red  
And the jagged line running  
From navel to breastbone  
Has been stitched closed.  
No stitch can repair  
The decay tunneling  
His body like an empty lotus pod  
And no degree of cold  
Can sweeten his smell.  
In my mind his muscles stretch  
And he lifts himself to sitting  
On the stainless steel slab.  
The stitches come undone  
And there’s a knife  
In my hand  
Which I drive into him.  
His eyes widen in pain   
In shock and fear  
But it’s not me  
Reflected in his eyes

It’s Abigail.

Hannibal  
Is alone in his office  
At his desk, drawing  
And listening to opera.  
I don’t bother to knock  
And he doesn’t seem  
At all surprised to see me.

During the drive here  
I told myself   
That it might not be true  
And that if it was  
Hannibal wouldn’t know.  
But he does.  
Of course he does.  
Not only does he know  
He helped.  
A terrible moment of hysteria  
As I imagine Hannibal  
In his three-piece suit  
Italian shoes  
And Burberry coat  
Dragging a bleeding body  
Into the woods  
But then I imagine  
Abigail   
Following after him  
Terrified  
Covered in blood  
And the two of them agreeing  
_We can tell no one._

It makes me feel  
As though I’m not  
Really here  
All over again  
And I turn away  
To the tall windows  
Where it’s raining   
In the street light.

Behind me  
Hannibal is in full flow -  
Self-defense  
The stigma of the Shrike  
Protecting Abigail  
Looking after her future.  
He keeps saying the word  
_Father_  
And it’s obvious  
That he’s manipulating me.  
I look out at the rain  
And think about Nicholas Boyle  
Dead one week   
Before his twenty-sixth birthday.

I feel Hannibal   
Crossing the room  
To join me at the window  
The wide stripes on the curtains  
Casting a dark ruby band  
Across his eyes  
Reflected raindrops  
Simmering and pooling   
Over his skin.  
He tells me   
That we are Abigail’s   
Fathers now.  
He asks me  
To keep this secret.

I consent  
With a nod  
And he puts his hand  
On my shoulder.

Abigail:  


He doesn’t need  
To say anything.  
There’s a kind of   
Light   
That comes into his eyes  
A light which is also  
A shade, like  
A curtain being drawn  
Looking over my shoulder  
Then looking at me.  
It makes me feel  
Skinned  
Seen through  
With nowhere to hide.  
I turn  
Just enough  
To look down the aisle  
Of the train car  
Until I see the girl  
Who looks just like me.  
Nothing changes.  
He wears the same clothes  
Has the same face  
But this is not my father.  
Except that it is.  
This is the Other  
Who is also my father  
And he is waiting.  
I make sure  
That the girl is not looking  
And then I get up.  
I feel my face transform  
And I hear a new voice  
Come from my mouth -  
_Is this seat free?_

I will find out  
Who she is  
Where she lives  
And when  
She will be alone  
While the Other   
Waits  
And watches   
The prairie go by.

Hannibal isn’t surprised  
When I tell him.  
He takes me in his arms  
And tells me  
I’m innocent.  
That he and Will  
Are going to keep me  
Safe.


	20. Alive

Hannibal:

You cannot be forever torn in two  
By regret, this tormented mind tormenting  
Yet still determined to go on.  
It’s no way to live, Will.

Will:

But maybe  
It’s the only way  
I can.

Hannibal:

What is it that you fear will happen  
If you let go?

Will:

What happened  
To Garret Jacob Hobbs  
And Nicholas Boyle  
And Tobias Budge.

Hannibal:

That you will kill those   
Who would kill you?   
Who would kill others?

Will:

You know what I mean.

Hannibal:

I do, but you and I both know  
That at the moment of death  
We take hold of life  
With such force that all else  
Is rendered meaningless.

Will:

Kill or be killed?

Hannibal:

The way of the world  
Some would argue.

Will:

And who am I to argue  
When it’s gotten us this far.

Hannibal:

But

Will:

But  
I had this case   
Back when I was working homicide in New Orleans.  
A thirty-seven year old handicapped woman named Maryanne had died and there was a wrongful death investigation. She was wheelchair bound her entire life, with the mental functioning of a baby. Her mother had to spoon feed her and Maryanne thought It was funny to grin so that everything would slide out the corners of her mouth. Her mother told us that one meal could take an hour, and that she got impatient sometimes, so after she put a spoonful of food into Maryanne’s mouth she would push her forehead back with her hand, just enough to make Maryanne swallow. It worked, but it also made Maryanne cough, and she spent years coughing on her food. When she died of aspiration pneumonia, her lungs were full of clotted blood the color of Coca-Cola. I had to interview Maryanne’s mother, to determine culpability. She just kept talking about how Maryanne would smile and laugh when she knew she’d made a mess.

How was Maryanne  
Supposed to take hold of life?  
Did she deserve to die  
Because she couldn’t?  
When her mother “killed” her  
Did she become   
Meaningless?

Hannibal:

Forgive me, Will  
For speaking more bluntly  
Than was appropriate.

I’m simply looking for a way  
To help you find peace.

Will:

I appreciate the effort.  
At this point, I’ve  
More or less given up  
On the possibility.

Hannibal:

What is it that you still hope for  
If not peace?

Will:

An answer  
As to why I’m losing time   
And hearing things.

Maybe I should get  
A brain scan.

Hannibal:

Perhaps a simpler exercise  
In the meantime. I want you  
To draw a clock for me.

Will:

What  
Does the clock do?

Hannibal:

It helps you keep track  
Of who and when and where you are  
To know that you’re alive  
When you feel yourself slipping.

Will:

It’s 7:16 p.m.  
I’m in Baltimore, Maryland  
And my name is Will Graham.

There.

Hannibal:

He hands me the notebook  
And settles back in the chair  
Heavy with exhausted resignation.  
He will not lighten until he is able  
To go to the river where he can be  
Patient, and silent, and catch a fish.  
But when he brings the fish home  
Rolls up his sleeves  
And uses his long knife  
The blood spreading dark  
Red and mirrored like mercury  
Makes him pause, eyes unfocused   
As his hands go still

And then he is on his knees   
Above a dying woman   
In an ocean of blood  
The fountainhead of which   
Is her head cut almost in half  
A boiling horizon.  
In this waking dream she lives  
A moment more, gagging  
But then Will  
Comes back and she goes  
Limp on the rough floorboards.  
He is awake and real again  
Scrambling off of her  
Sweating in terror  
Covered in blood  
Murder weapon clutched in his hand  
And this is how Jack and the others  
See him as he bursts, breathless  
From the crime scene -  
The very picture  
Of a killer.

When he comes to me  
The smell of her calls to me  
From the eyelash-thin  
Crescent moons of dried blood  
Beneath his fingernails.  
I want to scrub them clean  
But also   
I want to taste it.  
Instead  
I listen to his panic and guilt  
As he darts around my office  
A bird still trapped, and I feel  
Exhausted for him.  
He slouches against my ladder  
Head tipped back on the rungs.  
I relent  
And recommend a neurologist. 

Will:

I know I must be desperate   
To go through with this.  
It’s everything I can do  
To hold still  
As I slide through  
The X-ray tube - 

_All watched over_  
_By machines_  
_Of loving grace_

But when I close my eyes  
I see Beth LeBeau.  
I feel the soft cotton  
Of her pajamas  
And the bright  
Polished edges  
Of her teeth  
As I hold her jaw  
Open and saw  
As I pull her  
Open  
To see  
What?

Hannibal:

Dr. Sutcliffe is a competent neurologist  
But more importantly, he is an ambitious one.  
He knows that I have brought him a treat  
Well before Will’s brain lights up the screen.  
It is always a unique moment to see   
The scaffolding of consciousness exposed  
In this way, the dense coils of tissue   
Which confer personhood.  
Profound to reflect that the primal engine  
Igniting all that Will is  
Can be held in one’s hand.

The vision confirms what I already knew  
What I smelled in Will’s fevered sweetness  
And saw in the crushed wheel of his clock.  
Dr. Sutcliffe requires little convincing   
To break his oaths of duty  
For the sake of curiosity and conquest.

Will:

He says my scan was normal.  
That nothing is physically wrong   
With me. He shows me  
A picture of my brain  
And it reminds me  
Of the pictures  
Of planets   
In my middle school science textbook -

Strange bright colors  
Half swallowed  
In darkness  
Exposed by light  
Harsh and cold  
As lightning.  
The planets filled my nightmares  
For years, crowding my sky -  
Bigger than ships  
Bigger than mountains  
Bigger than anything  
I could imagine  
Hanging over me blind  
Unknowable  
And ready   
To fall.

I look  
At the picture of my brain  
And tell myself  
That it’s a part of me  
That it _is_ me  
That I’m seeing  
And understanding it  
Through itself.  
But I don’t feel any more  
Convinced   
Than when I looked  
At myself in the mirror  
While washing  
Beth LeBeau’s blood  
From my hands.

I look  
At the picture of my brain  
And know  
That all my worst fears  
Will come true.

Hannibal:

Jack does not want to believe that Will is broken   
Any more than he wants to believe  
That he broke him.  
He wants to believe that Will is innocent  
Fundamentally pure of heart  
In a way that will endure  
The merciless breaking of the world.  
That the essence is somehow inviolable   
Though trapped in a maelstrom of mirrors.

Will:

It’s 10:36 p.m.  
I’m in Greenwood, Delaware  
And my name is Will Graham.

I don’t turn on the lights  
Out of respect for the house.  
Beth LeBeau’s blood  
Is still real, galactic   
Across the floorboards.  
In time with the traveling  
Beam of my flashlight  
I realize   
I’m not alone.

Something  
Someone  
Is under the bed.  
Someone   
Who could only be   
The killer.  
I move carefully  
As though approaching  
A starved rabid animal  
Caught in a trap  
And she bursts from beneath  
The bed, already running  
Past me to the door, and  
When I try to catch her arm

I open my eyes  
In the snowy woods  
Feet sore in my boots  
Throat burning with cold  
Tears freezing  
In my eyelashes  
As I shine the light  
On my watch  
As I check the empty   
Black sky  
As I turn helplessly  
Calling into the trees - 

It’s 1:17 a.m.  
We’re in Greenwood, Delaware.  
My name is Will Graham  
And you’re alive!  
If you can hear me  
You’re alive!

Hannibal:

See the man -  
Unannounced and distrustful  
Indifferent to the world’s accolades.  
Brilliant, yet terrified of his thoughts  
And even more terrified of his heart.  
Who mourns for himself in silence, briefly  
And only when it cannot be avoided.  
A man who will comfort a killer  
When he himself is lost.

Will:

She sees thousands of faces  
And doesn’t know  
Doesn’t recognize  
Anyone  
As someone  
She can trust.  
In cutting Beth LeBeau  
She was trying  
To see her face.

Her name is Georgia Madchen  
And her mother has given up.  
I can see it in her eyes  
The last embers of a torch  
Carried valiantly by a mother  
Who was told countless times  
That her child   
Could not be saved.

The torch held high  
For love  
For the life  
That is of her  
And also of itself  
Until the torch burned  
Until it blistered her skin  
Until her muscles quaked  
With the effort of raising it up  
Until she begged in her heart  
For a downpour  
For a way to lose the war  
Without surrender.

This ember is all she has now  
And she holds it close  
As though ashamed   
To be seen carrying it.  
At the same time  
She aches for her daughter  
Ember pulsing in time  
With her pain  
And with her anger  
That nothing could be done.  
That hope existed   
Only to have its heart carved out  
Over and over again  
A Promethean torture  
Of love.

Doctors  
Nurses  
Specialists  
Tests  
Treatments  
Medications  
Scans  
Needles  
Psych wards  
Restraints  
Examination  
Analysis  
Theory  
Guesswork  
Negligence  
Promises  
Opportunities  
Studies  
Retreats

And Georgia  
Numb to defeat  
As she continues to fail  
A test she doesn’t understand.  
Numb to disappointment  
As those who promise hope  
Sigh and look away.  
Numb to love  
As it fails to give her  
What she needs.

Jack says  
I need to trust him.  
Hannibal says   
I need to trust him.  
My twin anchors tethering  
Me to the ocean floor  
While a small starved  
Corner of my mind whispers  
That I’ve been caught.

I try not to let this feeling  
Strangle me as I slide  
Into the CT scanner again.  
The great blind wheel  
Of the X-ray tube   
Rotating around me  
I close my eyes  
And wander  
Through the woods  
Unseen and unheard -

_ Have you seen the ghost of John? _

Head swimming with the songs of the night birds -

_ Long white bones with the skin all gone. _

Exposed sticky tissue starting to freeze -

_Wouldn’t it be chilly_  
_With no skin on?_

I wake alone  
When the machine expels me  
Feeling confused and  
Oddly late to the party  
As though I accidentally slept  
Through the apocalypse.  
I find my clothes, and then   
Like the punchline of the world’s   
Most belabored joke  
I find the blood.

I don’t know for sure  
That any of it’s real  
Until police arrive  
Until Jack takes charge  
And Beverly bends over me  
Reassuring me gently  
That I can’t be the killer.  
It looks like Georgia  
My newest stray  
Heard my voice in the forest  
After all.

I don’t know why  
I still try to sleep.  
I’ve never been very good at it  
And it’s never been  
Very good to me either  
But I keep coming back  
Like a dog returning  
To the only person   
Who will give it scraps  
Even if those scraps come  
With a kick in the ribs.  
My nightmares soak the sheets  
And I put down towels  
Roll away from the clock  
And hope  
It will be better  
This time.

Growling wakes me.  
On the other side   
Of the room  
Every dog is awake  
Limbs tense  
Hackles raised  
Teeth bared  
Heads turned as one.  
I know without looking  
That Georgia Madchen  
Is under my bed.

She lies curled on her side  
Filthy and emaciated  
Primordial  
As though the darkness  
Beneath my bed  
Could be the cave  
Where she hides  
And prays for the return  
Of the sun.

I see you, Georgia.  
Think of who you are.  
It’s midnight.  
You’re in Wolf Trap, Virginia.  
Your name is Georgia Madchen.  
You’re not alone.  
We are here together.

Georgia:

Am I alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for my sister. And for Maryanne.


	21. Influence

Will:

At the end  
Of the world there is  
A wall of ice, and it is  
Breaking.  
Breaking  
So deep inside  
That you can’t see  
It happen, until  
Tremors shake  
The snow, and then it is  
Falling.  
Falling  
Into the sea  
Until the sea  
Pulls back, is  
Sucked back   
From the sussurating  
Shoreline, from   
The beach and   
The magician’s staff  
Of bodies, and then  
There is a wave, and it is  
Rising.  
Rising  
Like a wall to block  
The sun, and   
Its shadow   
Covers me

Sweat covers me  
As I wake in bed. Not  
Sweat  
Water  
Water still  
Rising as  
The world  
Melts  
As I  
Become  
Water

Hearts  
And tongues  
Cocks and kidneys  
Hang from the trees  
On the side of the road  
Like Christmas ornaments  
Strung with veins.  
Abel Gideon has escaped  
And now appears  
To be on a voyage  
Of self-discovery.

I stand at the back  
Of the briefing room, trying  
To listen to Jack as  
The room fills  
With antlers  
A forest of  
Antlers  
And everyone knows.  
Everyone  
Can see  
What I am  
What I’ve done  
Where I was always   
Going to end up.

Hannibal:

And where is that?

Will:

The Baltimore State Hospital  
For the Criminally Insane.

Hannibal:

Do you believe yourself  
To be insane?

Will:

No.  
But that isn’t much  
To go by.

Hannibal:

How does anyone keep track  
Of their own sanity?

Will:

I know  
What you want   
Me to say.

Other people tell us  
And we have to trust  
That they’re telling us  
The truth.

Abel Gideon  
Feels betrayed  
By the people he trusted  
To tell him he was insane  
So now he scrambles  
Their brains, and  
They’re here in the lab  
The cafeteria where  
Only corpses are served  
And the water  
Is still getting in from  
The wave that is   
Still rising, trickling  
Around the edges  
Of the doors which  
Hide the bodies, and  
I know that  
I need to be  
Still and  
I need to be  
Quiet, if  
I don’t  
Want them to  
See me.

The sanctity  
Of Abel Gideon’s mind  
Such as it is, was  
Violated, and now  
He is calling out  
For someone new  
To tell him who  
He is, a mating call  
Of bodies for  
The Ripper  
That backstage impresario  
With all his elegant knives.

It’s snowing  
And Jack is driving me  
To the observatory where  
We think Abel Gideon is holding   
Dr. Chilton and Freddie Lounds  
Hostage. It’s night, and  
Only six feet of world  
Exist at a time  
On the stage  
Of the car’s headlights.  
I stare at the road  
Flying under us  
Until it doesn’t seem  
To be moving at all, until  
A cataclysm of  
Blood on the road  
Exists and is gone  
In a second of time  
Which is a world  
Created and lost  
In less   
Than a heartbeat, and  
I don’t know if  
It was real because  
Jack is talking about  
To  
Me, saying  
I need to let go  
To block out  
To take care of my  
Self, and I don’t  
Know how to tell him  
That they  
_Are_ my self -  
That I am   
Fractured  
Multi-being.

_Do I contradict myself?_  
_Very well then I contradict myself._  
_I am large._  
_I contain multitudes._

Jack tells me to wait  
In the car like a child  
Whose parent must run  
Into the drugstore, but  
I am naughty  
And get out once  
He and the SWAT team  
Have gone  
Into the white dome looking up  
Into the sky.  
The night feels   
Like restless limbs held  
Still too long in church  
And I am not cold  
At all as my boots crunch  
A good sound  
The snow.

There is  
An exhalation  
A grunt of hot breath  
Where the stag  
Fur lustrous dark as   
Raven feathers  
Waits.  
He is not cold either.  
He wants  
An adventure.

Hannibal:

Will arrives on my doorstep  
Holding a gun to the back  
Of Abel Gideon’s head.  
Naturally, I invite them in.

What are you doing here, Will?

Will:

I need  
I need you  
To tell me  
That this is   
Real.

Hannibal:

It’s 7:27 p.m.   
You’re in Baltimore, Maryland   
And your name is Will Graham.

Will:

Not _me_  
Real  
This -  
_Him_  
Is he real?

Hannibal:

Is who real, Will?

Will:

Garret Jacob Hobbs.

Hannibal:

We’re alone, Will.  
Just you and I.

Will:

_No_  
I followed  
And you _led_  
He’s the message  
He _has_ to  
Be

Hannibal:

Will comes apart where he stands  
Eyes rolling white as his mind escapes itself.  
I take the gun from his trembling fingers  
I hold his face  
Smoothing the tears from his cheeks  
And listen.

Will:

I pulled my car over  
To the side of the road.  
It was high summer in Louisiana  
Air thick and hot as soup  
And I had seen  
Blood on the road.  
I took my flashlight  
And walked back  
Along the blacktop  
Until I found it  
Still wet  
Brighter than the movies  
And followed it down  
Into the grass lining  
The ditch like  
Long limbed anemones   
Where the doe had died.  
The impact had crushed  
One side of her body in   
Pushing her fawn out  
One delicate leg and  
A broken neck  
Hanging out of her  
Full of screaming flies.

I think about the one  
Who mourns them  
And wonder whether  
He has found vengeance.

Hannibal:

I sit across the table from Abel Gideon  
Gun comfortably at hand  
A bowl of ostrich eggs between us  
Like progenation altar fetishes  
As snow falls in the winter night.

We discuss the creation of identity  
Whether it is born of thought or of action.  
How much of one’s identity exists intrinsically  
And how much of it comes into being  
Through the process of being seen by others?  
How was anyone to know  
That Abel Gideon was the Ripper  
If he did not start acting like the Ripper?  
And in acting like the Ripper  
He is now being treated like the Ripper.  
When one is called a killer  
And treated like a killer  
Is one compelled   
To become a killer?

Will emerges slowly  
From his post-seizure lethargy, head turning weakly  
Towards the sound of my voice like a flower  
Turning towards the sun.  
I make sure that he is functional, relatively speaking  
I coax him into position on the chessboard  
And once he has made his move I go  
Back to preparing my dinner.

Will:

I’ve lost track of whose  
Car I’m driving, but  
Halfway to Alana’s house  
I think   
It might be  
Hannibal’s? It’s  
A car  
And I’m driving  
To Alana  
With a gun  
To stop Abel Gideon  
From killing her.

The car lurches   
To a stop. I’m here  
Even though   
I don’t remember   
How I know where  
Alana lives, but  
It doesn’t matter.  
I’m on my feet  
I’m not cold  
I’m moving  
I am here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here  
Here

And so is Abel Gideon.  
He stands in the snow  
With his hands in his pockets  
Outline dark against  
The light of Alana’s house.  
I stagger to his side and  
Garret Jacob Hobbs   
Turns to look at me -  
Eyes gone milky  
Skin the color of  
Wet newspaper clotted  
In the rain gutter.  
But it can’t be  
Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Because  
Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Is _dead_  
And Hannibal said  
That Abel Gideon  
Would be here  
And here he is  
And from somewhere   
Far away but  
Getting closer  
The wave  
Which sounds like wind  
Is still rising.

Gideon says   
What I already know -   
That he doesn’t know  
Who he is.   
That his Self is lost, if  
There was a Self to  
Begin with, if  
There is a Self to  
Find.

Even now  
Like this  
I know what he means.  
I know Abel Gideon  
Because I have been   
Abel Gideon  
Because I have been  
Garret Jacob Hobbs  
Because I have been  
So many fucking people.

But sometimes  
I have also been  
The Me myself -  
Sometimes   
I have been quiet  
And singular.  
I have walked  
Beneath the trees  
And listened to the birds  
And woven tiny bright feathers  
Onto fishhooks.  
My dogs run to me  
And I see my one Self  
In their joy.  
No matter how  
Many people  
Think and feel and talk  
Inside my head  
My dogs know me  
By my voice  
By my hands  
By my smell.  
Their recognition of me  
Means that I am   
Still here   
Whole.

And in my wholeness  
I shoot Abel Gideon  
And collapse  
In the snow.

Hannibal:

You doubt my motives, Dr. Du Maurier?

_I am encouraging you_  
_To examine your motives._

I care for Will, as a patient and as a friend.  
I want to help him.

_It is not always possible_  
_To help our patients_  
_No matter how much_  
_We may want to._

_Sometimes all we can do_  
_Is listen._


	22. Chicken Soup

Will:

_Silkie chicken  
Wolfberries  
Broth  
Star anise  
Ginger  
Red dates  
Ginseng_

Hannibal recites these ingredients  
Like a holy invocation   
Unpacking his Tupperware  
At the end of my hospital bed  
And it takes me a moment  
To realize it’s soup.  
I’m sick, and he’s made me  
Chicken soup.  
He lays it out on the table for two  
As I ease myself from bed  
And walk my IV stand  
Over to him.  
He opens the curtains a little  
And I try not to think about it too much -  
That he’s here  
That there’s soup  
That it’s the best I’ve ever had.

Luckily  
He starts talking about other things -  
About Georgia, her recovery  
My recovery, even though  
Something still plummets inside  
When he says

_Mental illness  
Dementia_

Like the words have already been   
Carved onto my headstone.  
I don’t want to sound childish  
But I don’t know how to tell him  
That this doesn’t feel like who I am  
Because when have I ever given him  
Reason to believe that I know  
Something as simple as that?  
When I was out of my mind with fever  
Trying to kill Abel Gideon   
While seeing the ghost  
Of Garret Jacob Hobbs?  
Hannibal tells me  
That he won’t say anything  
To Jack yet, not until  
The doctors have more information.

And I feel very young   
Suddenly, absurdly as though  
I’m remembering a childhood -  
Out of school for a snow day  
Wet and wind-burnt from sledding  
A solemn pact between friends  
To not tell the grownups  
About a broken window.  
A childhood  
I never shared with Hannibal  
And yet I look across the table  
At him, and for a moment I think -  
 _We haven’t changed that much at all  
Have we?_


End file.
